Beneath the Silver Moon
by saphir-soldat
Summary: Grant/OC One-Shot, circa Eindhoven


**This one-shot is dedicated to the utterly amazing IceColdInAlex, author of the fantastic OC fic _A One Woman Army_, in honor of her birthday! Muchos gracias to the equally amazing Miluielwen (author of the superb _Femme des Ombres_) for help with names, some Dutch history, and general support & encouragement. I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

Eindhoven, the Netherlands  
Early September  
1944

Pt. 1  
_distance makes the heart grow weak_

The sky above the city is luminous, a vibrant pale blue tinged with green, and barely rimmed on the edges with the lightest peach color. Pushing back the worn, itchy quilt, Francisca swings her feet around the edge of the bed, her toes barely touching the wooden floor. Ice-cold fingers slowly rub circles in her temples, trying unsuccessfully to dull the aching sensation. She has grown used to waking up with pain, little tape pieces of pain stuck to her stomach and arms and to the tops of her legs, like broken glass still laid in the pattern of its former self. This tiny box of a room only has one window, but mercifully it is a large one. It lets in the soft light in a way that can only be described as impartial, the early-morning chill radiating off the glass. When she looks out above the tops of the buildings and across them into the infinite air, she cannot stop herself from feeling hopeful. In this time of war, even the simple act of waking up is a blessing.

From the small picture on Francisca's bedside table, her brother's eyes are trapped in smoky brown sepia, gazing purposefully at some faraway unknown. Closing her eyes, she kisses the top of the frame, crossing herself as she does so. A tall, handsome boy with freckles and unruly red hair, Andre was brought back to Germany to work in the factories, only seventeen years old, the same age that Francisca is now. It doesn't seem to make any sense to her, but Arbeitseinsatz, that horrible word that curdles on their tongues and makes their mouths go dry, is law, and is not questioned. Suddenly there is a throbbing sensation behind her eyes, and she presses two fingers into the middle of her right hand to stop herself from crying. If she thinks too hard about all of the unknowns – where Andre is, what the conditions might be, the way he is treated – the tears won't be able to stop. Instead, she tries to focus on an infinitely smaller task: getting dressed.

The clothes in the small wooden dresser belong mostly to Andre, and to her father Jan, who died of a heart attack one year before the Germans came. He was forty-seven years old, but no consolation came from the fact that, at his age, he would not have been eligible for conscription even if he had been in perfect health. The owner of a small bar in Eindhoven, he was serious and steadfast, but with a dry sense of humor that shook Francisca's shoulders in silent laughter. His picture is opposite Andre's in the double frame, and she gazes at it sadly, trying to push away the fog of her own mind.

Faded floral dresses that were sewn by Francisca's mother years before the invasion still hang in her closet, but the cool September weather calls for something more substantial. She pulls out an old skirt that barely reaches her knees, wool stockings, and a long-sleeved blouse, layering the clothes carefully over her small frame, the soft curves, the angles at the places where bones are more pronounced – her elbows, shoulders, collarbone. After that she sits on the bed and laces up her beat-up brown leather boots, scuffed beyond repair but her favorites nonetheless.

Brushing out her tangled auburn hair, she can't help but think to herself that beyond the horrible, shaking fear, it is truly what the enemy has taken away, not brought, that has weakened the citizens of Eindhoven. Her arms and ribcage feel too exposed in the light shirt and she takes a heavy gray wool sweater out of the bottom drawer, her father's, and tugs it on, ignoring the itchiness and the faint smell of mothballs. A smaller green sweater, from when Andre was a boy, is folded in the corner of the drawer, and Francisca takes it out gently, draping it over her arm and walking quietly down the hall to her mother's room to wake her younger brother Theodoor. At seven years old, the only memories he has are those of occupation. Sometimes Francisca finds it difficult to look at his face – bright blue eyes watered down by hunger, a resigned smile that tugs on her heart.

"Theo? Theo sweetheart, wake up." She brushes his cheek with the back of her hand, the pale pink bow curve of his upper lip wobbling slightly. He opens his eyes and gives her the faintest hint of a smile, pulling the threadbare sheet up to his nose.

"Okay."

She helps him get dressed and pulls the sweater over arms that are beginning to lose the fullness of childhood, quickened by the lack of proper nutrition. The small wooden staircase creaks under Francisca's boots, and she tries to keep hold of Theo's hand as he runs down in front of her to the kitchen.

"Quiet on the stairs, Theo!"

Their mother's voice is an exasperated whisper, and Francisca's eyes immediately light on the small pan of oatmeal on the stove, her stomach growling involuntarily.

At forty-three years old, Johtje de Ruyter could pass for ten years younger; she doesn't like the tiny strands of silver that have started appearing in her light blonde hair, even though her daughter insists that they only make her more beautiful. She spoons out two bowls of weak porridge for her children, stopping herself from going to the icebox to rummage for food that she knows isn't there.

Francisca pushes her bowl of oatmeal towards Theo, choosing to pick at a small, mealy apple, pushing up the oily skin into wrinkles with her fingers. Oftentimes her dreams involve fresh fruit – usually peaches, or strawberries, but thinking too much about them makes her stomach hurt even more.

"Eten, eten," she says softly, giving him an encouraging smile. _Eat, eat._

Theo eyes his sister suspiciously, looking to Johtje for approval. She nods, but silently admonishes Francisca with tired grey eyes.

"I know you want to help your brother, Sterretje, but you must eat as well. Skipping so many meals is not good for you. Here, have just a little bit."

Her use of Francisca's middle name – Sterre, to Sterretje, little star – makes Francisca's heart squeeze painfully. Johtje scrapes the last remnants of the porridge out of the pan and onto a chipped plate. Francisca reluctantly takes a few spoonfuls and then puts the rest into Theo's bowl as her mother sighs, as if to say, "_what will I ever do with you?"_

"Wouter Bakker says that the Americans will be here within the month," Francisca announces while ignoring her mother's expression, trying to lighten the mood. Johtje shakes her head.

"I don't want to have this conversation, Sterre, especially in front of your brother."

"Why not?" Francisca takes a bite of the apple, her mouth puckering up into a grimace.

"Whatever happens will happen. It doesn't do to be interested in the baseless speculations of fifteen year-old boys."

Francisca and her mother walk around the truth in their minds – that the Bakkers have a secret radio in the floorboards of their basement – that Mr. Bakker is a member of the Resistance cell in Eindhoven, and Johtje goes silent. She gets up and starts to busy herself with the dishes, and Francisca knows not to push the point further. Taking Theo's hand, she leads him into the small living room, setting him up on the tattered sofa with a few wooden toys and several books, mostly ones that were hers when she was younger. Then she goes back into the kitchen to help her mother finish cleaning. The rest of her day is occupied by sewing, the tug and pull of needles and thread. Johtje's business as a seamstress has slowed considerably in the four years of the occupation, as more people took to saving money by making their own clothes, but repairs are needed when old pieces are stretched by bodies too big to fill them comfortably.

When it is finally time to turn in for the evening, Francisca lingers at her bedroom window. The September night is cold and crisp and the moon is irrepressibly bright, like a perfectly-cut jewel suspended in dark blue velvet. She says her prayers and gets into bed, but finds it almost impossible to fall asleep. One hour passes, and then two, and then three. Diamond stars dot the sky. She reaches under her mattress and pulls out a small metal tin, somewhat dented, digging her fingernails under the lid to pry it open. Inside are postcards, brought back by her father from her parents' honeymoon in Paris. They are beautiful pictures, of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc d'Triomphe, the Seine, botanical gardens. Francisca often turns to them when she cannot sleep, revisiting her dream to study poetry in France, and become a teacher. There is an old poetry book on her shelf, completely in French, that her father gave to her when she was ten. He had begun to teach her the language shortly before he passed away. Now it sits on her shelf gathering dust, waiting patiently for someone to come along and decipher it.

She doesn't know how long it will be like this. She feels trapped, in this room, in this house, in this city, in this country, in this continent. Across oceans, people are free, and Andre has always taught her to have faith in the power of time. "Alles komt op zijn tijd," he said. He that can have patience can have what he will. Standing on the edge, she has no choice but to believe him.

* * *

Eindhoven, the Netherlands  
September 18  
1944

Pt. 2  
_we can be higher than our hearts_

The town is a joyous, whirling, whooping parade, the streets cheering breathlessly, the orange of flags and banners mixed with the dark green fatigues of the liberating army. Everything feels like it's happening intensely fast, like frames frozen for mere seconds, only to resume again in double time. It's as if all the world is suddenly breathing again.

Francisca can feel the energy radiating from the air, and instinctively she shrinks back, closing her eyes, willing herself to be brave enough to dive into the fray. Before she can even begin to think clearly, Theo is tugging at her hand and talking a mile a minute.

"Francisca let's go we gotta go let's go let's go let's goooo!"

A man she recognizes from church hands her a small Dutch flag on a stick, and she gives it to Theo, looking behind to see if her mother is there. Johtje is talking with Willa Bakker and Maartje de Wolff, the mothers of Francisca's two best friends. She gives Francisca a brilliant smile and waves, but continues her conversation. When Francisca looks back at her feet, Theo is gone. Panic twinges in her chest, and she starts weaving through the crowd, pushing aside her own anxiety. He couldn't have gotten very far.

To her intense relief, she spots Theo sitting on the knee of an American paratrooper, posing for a picture with the soldier and his buddies. The men are just as boisterous as the civilians, talking and laughing, elbowing each other to look at the camera. They aren't even men, she thinks. They are all heartbreakingly young. When the photographer is finished, Theo runs over and hugs Francisca around the waist, and she runs a hand through his curly brown hair.

"Why aren't you over there with the other girls?" he asks, looking up at her.

Francisca looks across the street to see a gaggle of girls about her age, maybe older, crowded around a group of paratroopers, asking for autographs (of all things!), kissing them thankfully, leaving lip-shaped smudges the color of cherries on their cheeks.

"Well," she begins, but Theo has already moved on.

"Can I go back with Mummy?" he asks. "Where is she?"

"Over there." Francisca points to her left, where her mother is sitting at a café table with her friends. Theo runs off before she can even say go.

She sees a soldier standing at the corner of the street with a buddy standing next to him. More girls come up and kiss them both on the cheeks with gratitude, but he seems infinitely more preoccupied with reading his map and attempting to organize his men. The taller one, with hair like pale fire, looks so much like Andre that Francisca's heart nearly stops.

Suddenly a body collides with her shoulder from behind, pushed by the overeager crowds, or maybe due to a stumble on an uneven stone in the pavement. Turning around, she sees one of the soldiers from the photo, with blue eyes and hair the color of gold.

"I am so, so sorry Miss, I didn't mean to bump into you like that." He smiles, a wide, infectious grin that is so joyful she can't help but return it.

"It's…it's all right."

"Are you sure?

She presses her lips together in a wide, closed-mouth smile, and nods.

"May I inquire as to your name?"

"Francisca. Francisca de Ruyter."

"I'm Charles, Charles Grant." Another paratrooper from the picture walks up to Grant before he can respond, with dark hair and a jaw that looks like it could cut glass.

"Hey Chuck, who's your new friend?"

"This is Francisca," he says, and she blushes.

"I'm Bill," he says, smiling and holding out his hand, and she shakes it. "My girl back home's named Frances, everyone calls her Frannie. Do people call you that?"

"No, my mother usually calls me by my middle name, Sterre."

"That's real pretty. What does it mean?"

"Star."

As Grant opens his mouth to respond, he and Bill are tugged away by the arms, a group of men shaking their hands, and then a man Francisca guesses to be their superior officer, is yelling at them. Grant glances quickly behind and gives her another smile, before being spirited off into the crowd.

_If only I'd had the courage to say something to him, _she thinks. _Or maybe even kiss him like those other girls. You've been so timid, Francisca. Just do something impulsive, for once in your life._

She can't help but think of Andre as she walks back towards the crowds at the center of town, what he would be like on a day like this. Smiling that impossibly wide smile, dancing, trying to talk to the soldiers, offering help, carrying Theo on his shoulders. She prays for him again, wishing across the miles that he is safe. _Please, dear god, keep him safe_.

Interrupting her bittersweet reverie is a tap on the shoulder. Francisca whirls around, and, like déjà vu, Grant is standing in front of her. Her mind is racing. Now's her chance, it's now or never.

"Miss, would it be all right if I-"

She leans forward, not very far because of the press and thrum of the crowds, and kisses him. Short and sweet and on the cheek, a perfect moment if there ever was one. Her heart is beating a hundred times a second, her knees shaking slightly with excitement.

When she pulls away, Grant's face is a mixture of surprise and joy.

"I was going to ask if I could kiss you, but I guess you already took care of that for me!" He laughs, and she blushes.

"But...you were going to do it a bit differently?" she asks, quietly hesitant.

"Yes, if that's…okay," he says, brushing his hand against her cheek, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He leans down to kiss her again, this time squarely on the lips. She can feel him hesitating, wondering if he's being too forward. _No. Not at all._ She puts her arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, and they both hold the embrace for what seems like full minutes to Francisca. Not that she is complaining.

When she finally lets go it's because there's a man tugging at Grant's shoulder, shouting for him to move, and Francisca laughs. "It's – I guess it's okay."

"I guess it is."

She smiles and looks down at her shoes.

"I guess this is goodbye, sweetheart?"

Francisca nods. "Take care of yourself." It's the only thing she can think of to say.

"You too." He nods and gives her a salute, his face completely serious, and then breaks out in the widest grin. It's the last she sees of him before he disappears into the crowd. She hopes fervently, desperately, that he will stay out of harm's way, that he will stay safe, and the futility of this thinking something she can't, won't, think about. Not now.

A sweet kind of nostalgia presses on her heart then, and she can't help but feel that she will remember this moment, this one moment, for the rest of her life. It's magical, in a way, she thinks. Men floated out of the sky to save us, and one of them kissed me. Yes. Magical.

* * *

Eindhoven, the Netherlands  
September 19  
1944

Pt. 3  
_at least until the smoke has cleared _

The bombs started to fall not even two days after their saviors had left. Phrases like "tactical failure" pale in the face of bone-shaking explosions and the sound of buildings caving in, of bricks and debris hitting the streets. Huddled in the dank basement of the house, Francisca holds her brother as close to her as she can, praying over him silently, _please dear God keep him safe_. Johtje is mere inches away, clutching Theo's hand. Francisca was able to grab the tin of postcards and the picture of Jan and Andre in the minute space immediately following the first bomb, the first screaming rush, but that is all. In a crazy twist of fate, Francisca thinks, the sky is the only good place. The only safe place. She wishes for the safety of her family, of her rescuers. But one, one selfish thought, keeps returning to her: to be half-asleep, dreaming, in a plane over the city that she loves. Over the ocean now, far-removed from the suffering on the ground, above the fire and the terror, all-seeing, her head leaning on the shoulder of a soldier that will protect her. Wrapped in the endless safety of the stars, suspended in an ageless and infinite sky.

* * *

**Author's note: In order, the song titles for the lyrics at the beginning of each part are as follows: _Lonely Lonely _by Feist, _Light All My Lights _by Seeker Lover Keeper, and _Last Time _by Paper Route.**


End file.
